


Suck it up, be a man.

by lynch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynch/pseuds/lynch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Mickey stands up to Terry, he's only 15 years old.<br/>Living with Terry is a lot like walking on a minefield. You can watch your step, but eventually, you’re bound to set your foot on the wrong place and blow up in ashes. Mickey’s tired of walking around the mines. He’s come to the point where he doesn’t give a fuck if he gets hurt. Either way, he’s miserable. And he accepts that, and he lets himself step wherever the fuck he likes, for a change.<br/>“No,” he tells him. That’s a word that his father’s not used to hearing around that house. In fact, that’s the first time in fifteen years that he’s ever heard it out of Mickey's mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suck it up, be a man.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this primarily because asplashofcolour suggested it and it's loosely based on a fic I wrote a while ago, where Ian realizes that Mickey knows just a little too much about home treatment of cuts and bruises. Honestly, I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe I just like torturing myself.
> 
> Read this fic in Russian: https://ficbook.net/readfic/5847584  
> Translated by: oddball94

“MICKEY!” Terry’s voice booms through the house like an erupting volcano. Whenever Mickey hears his own name called out, he knows it’s not for a good reason and his stomach twists into a knot.  He always has that short debate with himself, wondering if it’s smarter to pretend he didn’t hear his father or to run as fast as he can to see what he wants. From his fifteen years of experience, he’s learned that the former only ever worsens the situation, so he chooses the other option.

He drops his backpack in his room and rushes to the living room, where Terry is sprawled across the couch. His eyes are bloodshot and he reeks of cheap liquor, and Mickey’s disgusted and wants to tell him to take a goddamned shower.

“I thought I told you to pick up some cigarettes,” he says.  

Mickey’s eyes drop to the ground. He remembers, alright. Some mornings, before he goes to school, he and his brothers are assigned a couple of tasks that Terry needs done by the end of the day.  Getting a ride for whatever run he needs to make, picking up whatever orders he has coming, magically coming up with however money he plans to spend on booze. If it’s his lucky day, though, Mickey just gets to pick up a pack of cigarettes.

But Mickey didn’t pick up any cigarettes that day.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know, but I didn’t cause –“

“I can see **that** ,” Terry snaps at him, “I just really wanna know why?”

With every word he utters, he sends a nauseating wave of his breath that makes Mickey flinch. He wonders how many shots he’s had at the Alibi. He wonders if he’s had anything aside from all the alcohol. Mickey doesn’t need to know what kind of influence his father is under to know the outcome of this situation, though.

With no other escape, he decides to tell the truth. “Didn’t have any cash on me,” he blurts out. And really, he didn’t. On some days, he manages to get some out of the little scrawny kid in his PE class. Sometimes, he refrains from eating on lunch breaks just to save up some for Terry. But that day, Mickey really didn’t know how to come up with a couple of bucks.

But Terry doesn’t see how that’s a problem. His red eyes stare at Mickey as if they’re trying to cut a hole through him. “So?” He raises his tone, “How the fuck is that **my** problem?”

Mickey’s silent.

The lack of a response angers Terry even more. “Why didn’t you just grab it at Linda’s place then?”

The answer is pretty simple. Mickey didn’t steal it because he doesn’t want to end up like Terry, his criminal record so long, that it takes the police a separate room to store it. Of course, that’s just a thought that he doesn’t dare say out loud.

“I couldn’t,” he says, more to himself than to his father. At this point, Mickey knows that whatever comes out of his mouth is only going to get Terry even more worked up.

That gets him a cynical laugh out of his father. Terry knows that Mickey’s the smartest one of his sons. He knows that when he says he couldn’t, he doesn’t mean that he lacked the knowledge or ability to, but that he lacked the will to steal it.

“You couldn’t? Listen here, you little fucker,” Terry gets up from the couch and tries to stand. Despite the incredible amount of alcohol in his system, he stands straight and tall, towering above Mickey. “Take a fucking look around ya!” He waves his hands at the living room, “Don’t you see where we live? No one gives a shit if you can or you can’t.” He comes so close to Mickey’s face now that he almost faints from the horrible smell. His finger taps Mickey’s chest accusingly, before he continues to shout at his face. “Suck it up and be a fucking man, Mickey. That’s the only way you’re ever gonna make it ‘round here.”

Carefully, Mickey takes a step back. He bites down on his lip and avoids looking at Terry, since eye-contact has proven itself a bit dangerous at these situations. He wants to go to his room, or run outside and don’t come back till he’s sure Terry has passed out somewhere, because he knows he’s going to get beaten up. But there’s a fear that runs deeper than the fear of a few punches and it keeps Mickey steadily cemented into place.

“What are you waiting for, now?” Terry growls at him. “Go. Find. Me. Some fucking. Cigarettes!”

Living with Terry is a lot like walking on a minefield. You can watch your step, but eventually, you’re bound to set your foot on the wrong place and blow up in ashes. Mickey’s tired of walking around the mines. He’s come to the point where he doesn’t give a fuck if he gets hurt. Either way, he’s miserable. And he accepts that, and he lets himself step wherever the fuck he likes, for a change.

“No,” he tells him. That’s a word that his father’s not used to hearing around that house. In fact, that’s the first time in fifteen years that he’s ever heard it out of Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey counts. One, two, three, four – and Terry strikes and sends him flying to the ground. There’s a buzzing sound in his ears and for a moment his vision is too blurry. Crawling, he tries to get himself out of Terry’s reach, but before he can actually decide which direction to go to, he receives a crushing kick in his ribs.

“What did you just say?” Terry screams. “Come on, say it again!” He bends over and grabs Mickey’s collar. His other hand curls into a punch and smashes the left side of Mickey’s face.

Mickey doesn’t resist, it’s pointless. The sooner Terry spills out his anger, the sooner Mickey can go to his room and patch up his wounds. For a while, Mickey lets his father hit and throw him around, shouting about how he should have probably paid for his mother's abortion or just jerked him off in the sink. 

Once Terry’s done with him, he leaves Mickey lying in a puddle of tears in the middle of the living room. He storms outside, probably to get his own damn cigarettes. Mickey gathers himself and gets up. He doesn’t want Mandy to find him like this when she gets back from school.

There’s a bottle of vodka on the table and it’s probably the only alcoholic beverage they have at the moment. So, he grabs it and drags himself to the bathroom.

In the mirror, he sees a face caked with blood. There’s blood under his nose, there’s blood in his mouth and over his teeth, there’s blood around the ugly gash on his cheek, where his father's rings ran across his skin. First, he cleans himself up with water. Then, he soaks toilet paper with the vodka and applies it to his cuts and scratches. It burns like a motherfucker, but he does what his father told him. He sucks it up. He’s a man.

He pours some of the vodka down his throat, hoping that it can numb the pounding in his head.

From then on, he decides that what he can or can’t do doesn’t matter. The only thing that ever matters in his father’s house, is what Mickey **needs** to do. So, the next time Terry tells him to pick up some cigarettes and doesn’t leave him any cash, Mickey goes to the store. He sucks it up and gets his father some fucking cigarettes.


End file.
